


Spoons

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 00:31:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9409556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: They never start out spooning. Why would they?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into Wincest and Supernatural fic in general, and it seems I haven't posted any writing since 2012, so forgive me if this creaks a bit more than it should. Standard disclaimers apply.

You never start out spooning.

Why would you? It's bad enough that you're 15 and 19 and still sharing a bed. It's awkward enough to wake with morning wood when your brother is two feet from you, looking more at peace in sleep then he ever does awake. It's strange enough to have become so accustomed to someone else's presence that on the rare occasions you do get to sleep separately, you toss and turn all night and are more surly than teenage hormones should account for, and Dean has dark smudges under his green eyes and cusses more than usual.

No reason to make all that worse.

But you always end up spooning.

It's to be expected now, to slowly come awake in the sleepy stillness of the motel room, with Dean's solid weight behind you, his arm thrown carelessly over the skinny jut of your hipbone. Dad is usually not around in the morning, either gone out for a run or he didn't come home at all. So there's no reason to extricate yourself from a warm embrace; it's early October in Minnesota and the mornings are almost too crisp. So you stay where you are, listening to Dean's even breathing, feeling the air ghost tantalizingly on your neck, until he comes awake inevitably and leaves your side, more often than not with a muttered curse and a half-playful, half-serious shove to your shoulder.

You'll never say it out loud, not even when you're alone, but you live for those mornings. You never feel more loved.

He used to be the big spoon all the time, when the four years between you made serious differences in your height. Now you're stretching up, your hand-me-down jeans (Dean's, of course) seemingly shorter every day, and Dean eyes your upward reach with a warning look. He'll sulk forever if you end up taller than him. But it's changed the way you sleep, the way you curl around each other. Now when your eyes drift open, it's often to the too-close sight of a dark blonde head, close-cropped hair tickling the tip of your nose. Your arm is numb where it is cradled around Dean's broad, bare chest because his arm is on top of it, your fingers and his brushing against each other. One morning you dare to nuzzle the back of his neck, gently, and you're rewarded for a too-brief moment when he shifts back against you, his body touching yours at every inch, until he slips out from under your arm, leaving you cold and half-hard with pins and needles tingling your hand.

Neither of you are heavy sleepers. Hunter's instincts have seen to that. Still, you're never sure who makes the first move in the night, who rolls over to pull the other closer, who seeks the familiar touch that's become your new normal. You'll go to bed apart, not even at the same time, usually facing away from each other. But every morning you're nestled together and if Dad notices how his sons sleep, the brown and blonde heads closer to each other than they should be, he never says anything.

This particular morning you're the little spoon. Sunlight is filtering in through the cheap curtains. Dad never came in - you both would have woken if he had - and the room is still and silent. Dean is flush against your body, his knees bent up against yours, his arm around your waist, his forehead touching the back of your neck. You're lying as still as you can, savouring the moment before it's gone too soon, as always, when Dean sighs in his sleep and you feel his cock twitch against your ass.

You're pressing back before you're even aware that you're moving, the motion instinctual. His cock flexes again in response, and you reply, a silent call and answer. Now his hips move too, pushing a little harder, and you push back, craving every inch of him you can get.

The roll of his body is deliberate now, a small yet steady rhythm, and his breath is coming harder on your neck, turning just a little bit ragged, and you have never been more aware that you're both just in your boxers, thin scraps of fabric between your ass and his thrusting hips.

"Sammy?" His voice is rough with sleep, deep and rumbling against your back, and the upward inflection at the end of your name sounds more like he's asking permission rather than inquiring what the hell you're doing and a whimper leaves your throat before you can choke it back. He takes this for the affirmation it's meant to be, and his arm slides from its loose drape over your waist, hand coming up to grip your hip bone, and he rocks you back into him as he surges forward. You can feel him, diamond-hard against the flesh of your cheeks and your own dick is stiff and weeping and you're both breathing harder now.

"Dean..." You trail off, you can't find words to express what you want to say and his name is left hanging in the air like a moan. Dean actually growls, his teeth scrape along your skin, just above the first knob of vertebrae, and his fingers digging into your hip are gonna leave bruises. The lousy motel bed is squeaking with your combined movements, but Dean's harsh "fuck, Sammy" is louder and you bite back the "I want you to" that's banging on your teeth, itching to come out.

Dean's hand is suddenly gone from your hip, but you can still feel the heat and pressure of his thick fingers. The endless rocking rhythm of his groin on your ass stops and again you're helpless to prevent the needy whine that issues from your throat. He chuckles, deep and dark like warm honey, and then there's a fervent yank on your boxers and you lift your lower body to help him. He shuffles behind you for a second, and then the scorch of his skin is against yours, the barrier of fabric gone. His ramrod cock nestles firmly between your cheeks and his interrupted motions resume, grinding hard. You're missing the searing grip of his hand on your hip when that same heated hand curls around your neglected dick instead, and you lose all capability of intelligent thought.

"Dean, god!" This is more of a yelp and teeth sink into the vulnerable flesh where your neck meets your shoulder in reply. His hand is dry and hot on your aching hard-on, and now the matched motion of your hips and his is failing, as you try helplessly to both jerk forward into his grip and push backwards against his cock. His voice slides into your ears like velvet. "I got you, Sammy, I got you."

With a quick shove, he exerts the force that the thirty pounds of finely honed muscles he outweighs you with gives him to flip you further onto your side. His sleek leg comes around and pushes yours upwards, curving your body up slightly. His weight is heavy on top of you, pushing his dick into the crease of your ass, and pressing your own cock further into his hand. You’re trapped between his body and the mattress, nerve endings sparking madly everywhere he’s touching you.

His tongue flicks against the shell of your ear as his hips pick up the motion once more. His hand is at work on your dick, his thumb sliding up across the slit to swipe through the leaking precome and back down along the shaft again. “How’s that feel, Sammy?” he asks darkly, his lips right against your ear and how could you have ever told him you hate when he calls you that, how can you ever hear him call you that again without creaming your jeans. Your brain has lost the ability to make words, so the only answer you can give him is a ragged moan and since it’s all you seem to be able to manage, you might as well make it loud. There’s no one to hear you anyways. 

The sound makes Dean’s breath catch in his chest, and his head drops forward to meet yours, his sweaty forehead against your sweaty temple, the movement of your bodies never ceasing. You don’t know how you’ve lasted this long but you’re sure that’s gonna end soon. The sweet pressure is building in you, and Dean’s quick, sure strokes along your cock are almost getting painful.

“Dean, I’m gonna - ” Miraculously, words are making it out of your mouth, and Dean growls again - god, that sound - and adds a weird twist to his stroke of your cock and grinds his length against your tailbone and that’s it, you’re gone, a painful gasp coming from deep in your chest as you spurt out over his hand and the mattress, spiraling over the edge you’ve been on for what felt like years. 

Dean is crooning nonsense into your ear as your body quakes. You’re dimly aware that his cock is still grinding between your ass cheeks, so you summon everything you’ve got left and meet his thrust once more and then his hand that’s still on your now-softening dick tightens and his teeth are in your neck again and he’s choking on a noise that could almost be a cry and warm wetness is shooting against your ass. He rides the wave of his orgasm on you, rocking your body along with his, until it’s done and he slumps down, his weight gone from on top of you. 

Sweat is cooling on your skin, making goosebumps pop out all over and you shiver just a bit. Dean shifts behind you and when you roll over to face him - god your shoulder, where all the weight was pressing down, hurts like a bitch - he’s lying on his back, his arm over his eyes. You can see the glisten of your still-wet come on his fingers and your dick makes a valiant effort to get interested, but you ignore it. 

“Dean?” you try, knowing he’s mentally beating himself up now that the high is gone and he can focus on what just happened. But he doesn’t reply, just gives a shuddering breath outwards, like you do when you’re trying not to cry, and you can’t bring yourself to touch him, because if he told you to stop it would break your heart. Plus the light is now streaming in through the crack in the curtains and Dad will be home any minute, so you slip from the bed and into the bathroom to clean up.   
You hear a door open while you’re still in there, and Dad’s boots clomping around. There’s a murmur of conversation, but you don’t strain your ears to make out the details. You climb into the shower, quickly washing off the sweat and come, but the fear and the worry stick to your insides and you can’t wash them away. When you emerge from the bathroom, Dad is snoring lightly in the other bed and Dean is gone.

He doesn’t come back, and there’s no school ‘cause you’ll only be here a week, so you go for a run and come back and Dad is awake and the two of you strip and clean the weapons, which is usually Dean’s job. You always have to make an effort with Dad, especially when Dean isn’t around, so when evening rolls around and Dean still isn’t back and Dad finally leaves for the bar again, you breathe a sigh of relief and sink down onto the bed. It smells like dried come and sweat and you and Dean and you have to resist the sudden urge to press your nose into his pillow. 

The door opens and you wonder what Dad forgot, but it’s Dean. He’s carrying a bag of burgers, which he proffers like a peace offering, and you spring off the bed and bound to his side with less dignity than you’d prefer, but you feel the need to make Dean know that you don’t blame him for what happened, and maybe it works because he gives you a lopsided grin and takes the least-squashed burger. You chuck a ketchup packet at him and he stuffs a handful of fries down your shirt and suddenly you’re both laughing and shoving at each other like nothing happened. 

Everything seems fine and you’re sure this is just gonna be another Thing We Don’t Talk About, but you’re also wondering what will happen when it’s time to go to bed. Dean had pulled a pack of cards from somewhere and you’re playing poker now, getting beaten nine times out of ten - how can he be so damn good at a game that’s half luck of the draw - and midnight has come and gone but no one has said anything about hitting the sack. Dad said you were moving on in the morning and hangover or not, you will be, and he won’t care if you’re exhausted because you were both scared to sleep next to each other. 

Your watch beeps one in the morning and Dean is shuffling the cards yet again, but you’re done. You deliberately strip down to your boxers, watching from the corner of your eye as Dean both looks and tries not to look. It makes him look like he’s got a tic. You head into the bathroom, brush your teeth, wash your face. He’s still at the tiny table when you come out, but you just head for the bed, slip under the covers...and wait. 

Dean rattles around, cleaning up the garbage from dinner, checking his duffle to make sure he’s good for the morning, heading into the bathroom to piss and brush his teeth too. His feet pad across the threadbare carpet and you can feel him pause next to the bed. Silence falls and you’re tense and stiff until you hear him sigh, and feel the bed dip as he climbs in. Your body relaxes - but then there are hands on you, dragging you across the mattress, pulling you until your back is resting against his warm chest and his arm is draped around your waist and your legs tangle together. His forehead presses on the back of your neck in his favourite position and when he rumbles “Go to sleep, Sammy,” it vibrates through you and sinks, warm and comforting, into your belly. The two of you drift off, nestled together like spoons in a drawer, and somehow you know that even though everything is different now, it hasn’t really changed at all.


End file.
